


Seconds

by rei_c



Series: Otherside [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fisting, Bloodplay, Dirty Talk, M/M, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-04
Updated: 2007-08-04
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:05:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6927880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean decides they should do the ritual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seconds

Dean thinks about it for two weeks before he finally says, "Let's do it." Sam, sitting in the passenger seat, legs stretched out for deceptive miles, caged only by the confines of the Impala and covered in faded denim, doesn't open his eyes, but Dean knows he's listening. Nothing about the way Sam's sitting has changed, but Dean can feel that Sam’s attention is piqued, trained on him. "The ritual," Dean says, just in case Sam isn't following. "Let's do it." 

It's been two weeks since Sam told him about the ritual. The only times they have alone with each other are like this, in the car, or in a string of motel rooms when their father decides they all need sleep. It's never enough. No matter what he does, where he is, Dean always wants more. He wonders, even with the ritual, even with Sam's assurance, if it will ever be enough. 

John's kept a close eye on them, something Dean finds himself resenting more for himself than on Sam's behalf; Sam seems to accept everything with a grace that Dean finds suspicious but won't allow himself to question. They're all together, hunting, like Dean has dreamed of for years, and if things are tense sometimes, or if Sam gets a look in his eyes after they fuck, it's just because they're all still getting used to each other. Two and a half months since he's found Sam, two weeks since they met up with their father -- he can't expect more than what they've all settled into. 

Dean's driving the Impala, Sam slouched in the passenger seat, following their father's truck through back-country Tennessee, hopefully toward food. He chances a look over at Sam, whose eyes are still closed, head still tilted back against the seat, and says, "You wanna?"

Sam smiles, a slow, serpentine expression, and asks without looking, without any other change on his face or of his posture, "You remember what we need?" 

"Blood," Dean answers first, immediately. "Hair. Tears. Sage. Salt. Come," Dean says, then snorts, adds, "Not that _that's_ gonna be a problem." Two weeks since their father opened a motel door and hugged them both, and Dean's been fucking his brother as often as he thinks they can get away with it, and then a couple times beyond that. It's never enough. He always wants more. 

Dean flicks his eyes to his father's rearview, catching John looking back at them for a brief second before they both turn their eyes back to the road. Dean reaches over, runs his hand down Sam's arm, fingers slowing down over the tattoo in the crook of Sam's elbow, letting the heat of Sam's skin soak upwards, into him. Sam's always so warm, inside and out. Dean's dick throbs and his throat dries up. Sometimes he feels as if Sam's burning him, though he doesn't quite believe it, not with the way Sam can act like a long-lost cousin of ice. 

He doesn't understand his brother but he thinks he's getting closer, might be almost there. Sam's playing the role of dutiful son, returned prodigal, whenever John's around, and, putting aside Dean's desperate urge to laugh every time Sam pulls the wool over John's eyes, he's reluctantly impressed. Sam's kept them from getting caught a few times and he's a much better liar now, quicker on his feet without any noticeable tells. Dean's not sure what his father thinks, has caught John giving Sam curious and worried looks every so often, but it's not necessarily been _bad_ and that's all that matters. 

The way Sam acts around the people they've talked to, that's a different subject all together. Dean remembers thinking, back in San Francisco, that Sam was a chameleon, blending into the background so easily it's hard to pick Sam out, changing too fast to keep up with, turning into what other people expect. He's like that with the civilians and experts they meet, but not when it's just the three of them, definitely not when it's just the two of them, him and Sam, alone and together like this. Dean can't help but think that it's only been two weeks, that Sam's still getting re-used to their version of normal, re-integrating into this way of life, and sometimes he doesn't feel anything but pride at the way Sam lies and charms and coaxes what they need out of other peoples' hands.

When they're like this, the two of them on the road, or at night, trapped in libraries when John's interviewing, running errands while their father sticks papers to walls like a psycho, Sam's a mix of brother and whore that's slowly driving Dean insane in the best way possible. If Sam doesn't have his mouth around Dean's dick, then Sam's teasing him or running for coffee, and if Dean isn't buried so far in Sam's ass that he thinks he'll never break free, he's teasing and sniping back, forcing Sam to listen to every cassette Sam says he hates. It's almost the way it was before Sam left, and it's all Dean can do to keep himself from begging Sam to stay this time, with or without the damned bond.

Dean swallows, clenches his hands around the steering wheel, and jumps when Sam drawls, "Are you complaining, Dean?" 

It takes Dean a second before his thoughts scatter back 'round to the topic of their discussion, but his mind catches up quickly. Ritual. Come. _NeedSamneednowSamneedSamnownowneed._

Sam laughs, and Dean feels the bond between them pull taut and shiver. "Dad's finding us a place to eat and then we'll get a room. Can't you make it just a couple hours longer?" 

"No," Dean snaps, hating the patronising tone Sam's using, accomodating and amused and indulgent. He forces every desperate urge he's feeling down the bond and feels viciously triumphant when Sam's mouth breaks open around one of the sweetest moans Dean's ever heard. He keeps threading everything he's feeling into the bond and when Dean chances a glance at his brother, he wishes he hadn't; Sam's arched forward, neck bared, and he's hard inside his jeans. 

" _Dean_ ," Sam whispers. "Dean. Have to. I. _Please_." Sam's hands are shaking, digging like claws into his thighs. His eyes are still closed, even as he's panting. 

Dean takes one hand off of the wheel, unbuttons his jeans and unzips the fly, spreads his legs a little. "Won't fuck you until later, Sam, but come on." Sam trembles, groans when Dean pushes against their connection again, and then reaches out with one hand, fingers flying unerringly to Dean's cock, hard and leaking. 

"That's it, Sam," Dean says, low, encouraging. "Love the feel of my dick, don't you? Yeah, come on, you know how I like it. Get me off, and I'll fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk for days."

Sam's hand slides, long fingers getting caught in the crush and press of cotton boxer-briefs, denim jeans, sliding and squeezing just the way Dean likes it, no games, no pretence. 

Dean doesn't know how he's doing it, but he keeps sending feedback through the loop. It makes it even better, more intense, and Sam's begging in harsh little whimpers, words that make Dean's breathing stick when he deciphers them. "You can't come until I tell you," Dean says, foot punching the gas pedal for a split-second as Sam's nails pinprick against his cock. "Can't come until I let you, Sam, you hear me?" 

"Please," Sam says, then says it again. A thrill runs down Dean's spine. "Dean, _please_ , please let me, Dean." 

The third please gets him, that and the way Sam said his name, like it encompassed everything in the universe and then some. Dean stiffens, nearly slams his foot on the brake, and comes. Sam keeps stroking, coaxing out every last little drop possible, then takes his hand back and shoves it down his own jeans, wrapping around his own cock, using Dean’s come to slick his jerking, hard and fast. 

Dean catches his breath, looks over and loses it again. "Yeah," he says, torn between watching the road and wanting to watch Sam, the way Sam's knees are bent and his legs are splayed open. "Just like that. Think I'll let you ride me tonight, Sam, what d'you say? Let you fuck yourself open on my dick, dig my nails into your hips, fuck you 'til you come over both of us, sound good?"

"Dean," Sam begs. "Dean, please, let, Dean, let me come, please, I _can't_." 

"Maybe I'll eat you open first, fuck you with my tongue," Dean says, using one hand to tuck himself back in and set his clothes to rights before he can get hard again. "And then bite my way up to your mouth. How hard do you think I have to bite before I leave marks? When’s the last time we checked, hmm?" Dean licks his lips and grins as he sees their father turning into the dusty parking lot of a diner. One more glance over at his brother, head thrown back and lips bitten plump, and Dean orders, " _Come now_." 

Sam shudders, growls a little, and Dean can smell it a moment later, can smell _them_ , mingling together in the air and on Sam's hand. 

He turns off without slowing down, and laughs as Sam bites off a curse when the Impala dips into gravel.

\--

By the time Sam gets out of the car, two beats after Dean, he already looks like he's recovered. The smell of sex is gone, somehow, and John isn't doing more than standing by the diner's front door, eyebrow raised, waiting, as Sam stretches and his shirt rides up, giving the faintest, teasing glimpse of the tattoo curling around his belly-button. 

As has become normal, John walks in, Dean in the middle, and Sam following; all three of them take in the people, the counter, the smells, but as John sits on one side of a large booth and Dean slides into the other, Sam stands just a bit longer, turning and casting his eyes across the entirety of the place, letting his gaze linger on the door. This has become normal as well; Dean always wants to say something but never does, and he still hasn't found a way to hide the exhale of relief when Sam eventually sits down and kicks his legs out, slouching a little as Dean passes over a laminated menu with peeling corners. 

The waitress comes over almost right away, plunking down three glasses of water, the outside of the plastic already slick and dripping with condensation, ice on the inside small and irregular, melting more and more each nanosecond. The hum-click of an ancient fan sitting in the corner, the open windows, don't do anything for the heat.

"Y'all need a minute?" she asks, pops her gum; Dean thinks she's almost too old for such lurid pink, but he re-evaluates when her eyes glance over John and to his side of the table, slowing down as she takes in Dean and stopping entirely as she stares at Sam. 

"If you wouldn't mind," Sam replies before the others can. Dean's eyes flick up and catch his father looking at him, but he doesn't have the ability to answer back silently, not when he heard the slight purr under Sam's words, not when he can see the waitress flush high in her cheeks and smile a bit wider as she ducks her head, clicks her pen against her thigh absently. 

She nods, pops her gum again, twice, nervous, and says, "Ev'rything here's good. Y'all take your time and call me when you're ready." 

Sam nods, thanks her, and Dean doesn't have to see Sam's face to recognise the bitten-back predatory look his brother gives the waitress as she swallows and backs away, still blushing. 

"Diner menus never change, Sam," John says, and as Dean tears his eyes away from Sam, he sees his father staring at Sam. It's not the kind of staring that Dean's comfortable with, is more assessing, more wary, like it was at the beginning, right after Sam and John had been reunited. "We all always get the same thing." 

John's pushing now, out of nowhere, and Dean can't help tensing, can't help a quick look back at the girl, who's staring at Sam as if she's been entranced. He can almost imagine it, her spine curved, her mouth open, Sam's giant hands spanning her hips, the look on Sam's face as he comes deep inside her cunt. 

Dean realises that he's never seen Sam show interest in anyone, not since they started fucking, not really even before then, and this, this so casual flirting, it's something Dean's done a million times without thinking about. Why Sam doing it, knowing nothing's going to come of it, makes him so tense, so nervous, so _jealous_ , Dean doesn't know. 

"When's the last time you've been with a girl, son?" John asks. Dean chokes on air -- their father might be more of a sergeant than a dad, but he's never asked something so personal, not without leading up to it and a bottle of whisky on the table. 

Sam tilts his head as if he's thinking, finally shrugs, says, "Been a while." 

John's eyes glimmer, and he nods once, slowly. Dean sees red, makes an excuse, and flees for the bathroom. 

\--

He's not surprised to hear the door creak open a couple minutes later, though when he looks up, into the mirror, and uses his arm to brush excess water off of his face, he stares. He'd expected his father, not Sam, and he'd expected John to tell him that Sam's grown up now, can pick his own partners and they'll just have to give him space, space he's used to and probably misses. The fact that his father isn't here makes Dean wonder if he knows John at all. 

Sam's turned the lock on the door, and is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, shirt riding up the tiniest bit on his stomach, just enough to show off lean muscle and the trail of hair leading down under the waistband of his jeans, slung lower on his hips than Dean remembers them being before, outside.

"What were you thinking about?" Sam asks, head tilted. 

He sounds genuinely curious and the tone pushes Dean off-guard enough to have him sputtering out some badly-dreamt-up lie about needing to piss and sitting down too long in the car. Sam smiles, doesn't move from where he's leaning, and Dean can't take his eyes off of the mirror-reflection of his brother. 

"You were thinking about me fucking her, weren't you," Sam says, tone loose and easy as if they're talking about the weather. "You were thinking about me fucking someone else." Sam stands up, starts walking towards Dean, and when he gets close, he hugs Dean from behind, rubbing against Dean. "You're jealous," Sam whispers, “jealous of a waitress neither of us have ever met before,” right before he leans forward and sucks Dean's earlobe into his mouth, hums around the flesh, nips down. 

Dean's hands, knuckles white where they're gripping the sink, shake. Sam's hands move from Dean's hips to Dean's cock, deftly stripping Dean of jeans and underwear, pushing them down around Dean’s ankles, clothes and Sam a better prison than anything with bars. Dean shivers as Sam's fingers skitter along skin and thrusts forward into empty air when Sam bites down on his neck. Sam's eyes gleam in the mirror; Dean can't stop looking. 

"You're going to fuck me later," Sam murmurs, a sweet slip-slide of words that start a slow burn in Dean's belly. "We're going to get in bed, and you're going to fuck me so hard I can't walk, isn't that what you said, Dean? Fuck me with your tongue until I'm falling apart, then fuck me with your dick until I'm begging? You gonna set the pace, big brother, or will you let me, so you can see me ride you, feel me doing all the work?" 

Hands around his dick, and they're so warm, so gentle, counterpoint to the harsh and lurid words, that Dean wants to sob as much as he wants to come. Sam brushes his lips across Dean's neck, tongue trailing over the same spots a moment later. Dean shivers, can't help it, not when Sam's fondling him like something precious, like something _worthy_. 

"You wanna come in my mouth, Dean?" Sam asks, breathing into his ear. His tongue follows a moment later, traces the curves of cartilage with a whisper-light caress. "Want me to swallow you down so you know I'm full of you, not whatever food I ordered? Wanna know that you fed me first, keep me healthy, that I can't live without you?" 

Dean lets go of the sink, turns slowly, and Sam helps him stand against the sink before dropping to his knees. He looks up at Dean, cat's eyes dark, knowing, and leans forward, kisses the head of Dean's cock before swallowing him in one easy motion. Dean runs fingers across Sam's forehead and throws his head back. 

The cold ceramic of the sink digs into Dean's back; Sam's mouth is wet and warm. "Mine," Dean whispers, and he holds himself back from moving, doesn't thrust, lets Sam coax his orgasm out. It doesn't take long, not with this strange surreal sense of safety floating around them, turning this restroom into some other place, something near-magical. "My Sammy." 

Sam sits back on his heels and swipes his thumb across Dean's hipbone. "She's nothing to me," he says, and licks his lips. His eyes glitter.

Dean doesn't know whether to be relieved or scared.

\--

John doesn't say anything when they emerge from the bathroom together, just nods at the food on the table. "Sam ordered for you," he says, and Dean gives his brother a grunt of acknowledgement and thanks. 

The food's good, still hot, and the waitress comes back to top off their drinks every few minutes. She flirts with Sam, almost to the point of ignoring Dean and John's presence, and every time Sam flirts back, Dean has to remind himself that Sam's _his_ , that he's the only one Sam's having sex with, that he and Sam are bound in ways this woman will never understand. 

Sam doesn't say anything to him, but when they're digging into pie and ice cream, he reaches over, under the table, and traces a pressure-easy path across Dean's leg with his thumb. Dean can't help smiling, relaxing just a little, and when the girl comes back with the bill, he even manages to thank her without glaring. 

John pulls out his wallet, takes out a couple bills, and then looks across the table at his sons, speculative consideration in his eyes. He hands the money and the bill to Sam, says, "Go ahead and pay, Sam."

Dean nearly opens his mouth to protest, but instead wills his heart to slow down. Sam looks at him, calms him with that split-second of regard, and Dean manages to say, "Hey, don't look at me. Dad was talking to you," without, he's pretty sure, sounding off.

Sam ducks his head, looks back at John, and, as he stands up, Dean can't believe what he's seeing, the spots of faint colour high on Sam’s cheekbones, the slow hip-swing of Sam's walk as he crosses the diner, the way Sam's leaning on the counter and speaking in low tones to their waitress, cheeks now flushed redder than the ketchup Dean dumped all over his fries not fifteen minutes ago. 

"Maybe we should find a way to give 'im some time," John says. 

Dean looks at his father, incredulous, and stops when he sees John watching him, not Sam. "Maybe," Dean says. Time stops, and all he can think is that his father knows, that his father at least suspects. 

"He's changed," John adds. "Never would've done that before. Definitely not in front of us." 

"Yeah," Dean says, swallowing his disagreement. "Yeah, he's changed." 

It's a good thing John doesn't know how much. Maybe he does. Dean doesn't know which would be worse.

\--

Sam doesn’t say anything when they’re back in the car and heading for the nearest motel. Dean thinks maybe his little brother is starting to get a clue, because any words coming out of Sam’s mouth would have Dean pulling the Impala over, pushing Sam out of the car, and either punching him in the face or fucking him senseless. He’s relatively sure it wouldn’t be his fault. 

Dean settles down after twenty minutes, not much, but enough to look at Sam without seeing red. He does a double-take, noticing that Sam has a piece of paper in one hand, is playing with it, passing it from finger to finger, folding down the edges, dragging his nails across the fibre.

“What is it?” Dean asks, tone still gruff, still seething. He turns his eyes back to the road. 

“She gave me her number,” Sam answers, curling up slightly in the chair, folding his legs in some bizarre way that leaves one foot on the floor, the other up on the seat. “Said to call if I was ever in town again and I didn’t see her at the diner.” 

Dean freezes, and, out of the corner of his vision, he sees Sam turn enough to look at him, eyes glinting in the setting sun, hair flying every which way with the windows down. “Obviously you won’t need to,” Dean says. 

Sam smiles; Dean thinks the expression looks vaguely menacing, but then the chills down his back turn warm, fevered, as Sam says, “Obviously not,” the same purr from the diner back in his voice. “Why would I want her when I have you?” 

It shouldn’t make Dean want to throw a _Christo_ in his brother’s direction, but it does. He clenches his teeth together to make sure nothing slips out. 

\--

John sends Sam in to get a room, just one, after telling them both that he’s going on a fact-finding trip and won’t be back for a couple days. Sam hadn’t said anything, hadn’t even asked what John was going off to look for, and Dean’s not sure how his father felt about the lack of curiosity. John hadn’t commented on it, though, just sent Sam off and then turned to Dean with his eyes narrowed. 

“He told me he’d be fine,” John says, voice low, intent. 

Dean swallows, scratches the back of his neck. “Yes, sir, he will be.”

John grunts, asks, “Can you look me in the eye and tell me that, Dean? ‘Cause as it stands now, I don’t believe you.” 

“Yes, sir, he will be,” Dean says. It takes a couple seconds to work up the nerve, and the instant he meets his father’s eyes, he wants to look away again, wants to ask what John knows, how he feels about it. He doesn’t. “Yes, sir,” he says again, instead. “He’s not. He’s not the same. Three years by himself, after what he went through, he can’t be. But he’ll get there. It’s just taking more time than we thought, that’s all.” 

Dean’s not sure if his father believes him or not, but John nods and doesn’t say anything else until Sam’s come back with a key to the room at the end of the row. Even then, John only tells them to behave, to not go too far, and to make sure they’re back here, waiting for him, three nights from now. Dean wants to argue, wants to go with his father, wants to know where John’s going and why, but Sam does something to the bond as soon as Dean opens his mouth, and it’s all Dean can do to stay upright, to not let his face flush and fill with blood like his cock’s doing. 

\--

They watch their father leave and as soon as the dust settles behind the truck, Dean’s pushing Sam into the room, slamming the door and turning to shove Sam into the wood. Sam’s head hits with a thunk, his elbows follow a split-second later, and Dean’s pressing his thumbs into the fleshy parts of Sam’s neck hard enough to have bruises blossom almost instantly. 

“The _fuck_ did you do that for, huh?” he hisses, punctuating his words by forcing his thumbs even deeper into Sam’s neck.

Sam just groans, arches forward enough to give Dean the idea that he’s going about this entirely the wrong way; Sam’s aroused, hard, and close to smiling. 

Dean lets go with a huff of disgust, throwing his duffel on the bed closest to the door and turning his back to his brother. He takes a deep breath and nearly jumps when Sam slinks up behind him, silent and stealthy, to wrap his arms around Dean’s waist and lay his chin on Dean's shoulder. 

“This is the perfect time to do the ritual,” Sam murmurs, fingers sneaking up under Dean’s shirt, nails lightly scratching over the skin underneath, soft and giving, tracing over the tattoo around Dean’s navel. “That’s all I was thinking. Would you rather be with Dad, trying to hide this, or have the time to do the ritual and fuck as much as we can? Can’t tell me you’re more interested in whatever mouldy book Dad’s going after than you are in fucking my ass. Come _on_ , Dean, don’t do this, please, not now.” 

The sad thing about this is that Sam makes sense. From what Sam said before, it’s going to take a few hours without interruption to perform the ritual and one or two days to recover from it. If they do it tonight, or early in the morning, they’ll be done with it and settled by the time John pulls back in. 

Dean doesn’t want to admit that he hadn’t thought about it, and with the soft kisses Sam’s laying on his neck, he can’t hold on to the anger, especially not when Sam murmurs, “How ‘bout we get started now? More time to fuck, that way.” His fingers ghost across the fly of Dean’s jeans and Dean tilts his head back, closes his eyes. Sam’s firm behind him, underneath his skull, and his hands, fuck, his hands are everywhere. 

“Okay,” he says, minutes or hours later, Dean’s not sure and doesn’t care.

\--

The ice bucket will work instead of a bowl, and Dean goes out to the Impala, grabs a bundle of herbs and stands next to his car, breathing in the night air. The sky’s dark, new moon hanging somewhere overhead, and the air’s cool, fall coming in slow and steady, welcome relief after the long humidity of summer. Dean almost wants to sleep outside, find a tree somewhere and fall asleep high on one of its branches, gun in hand and alone, but Sam’s in the room and nothing will ever be strong enough to pull him away from Sam. Nothing’s ever been strong enough. 

He walks back inside and sees Sam kneeling in the middle of the room, stark naked. Just like always, the sight’s enough to have his heart skipping a beat, and Dean closes the door, locks it, just stares. 

Sam’s always been lean, more prone to a runner’s muscles than a lifter’s, and he got skinny in San Francisco between the heroin and the whoring. Now, after a couple weeks of food, physical and sexual both, he’s regaining his muscle definition, not much, but it’s an improvement. Sam heals clean, so apart from the three tattoos, his skin’s close to perfect, and his hair’s somehow darkened back to its natural colour without going through that messy, bottled-looking phase. 

The ice bucket, empty, is sitting on the floor next to Sam, and the bag of salt is on the other side, along with a wickedly curved knife. 

It hadn’t struck Dean what they’re planning on doing, not until he sees the knife just laying there, gleaming in the low light. He opens his mouth to protest, but then Sam looks up, opens his eyes, and lays himself bare in front of Dean. Green eyes shimmer in the near-darkness, tip-tilted like a fox, the same feral intelligence buried deep inside of them, the humanity Sam’s grasping on to a sheer veil at the forefront. 

“Are you sure?” Dean asks, because he can’t stop this, not when he knows how much it needs to be done. As long as Sam’s willing, Dean will swallow down his objections and go through with it. 

“I am,” Sam says, tone blank, as if he doesn’t want Dean to pick up on any hesitation or eagerness. “If you are.” 

Dean nods, then stands there, looking at his brother. Sam lets him, returns the gaze, and finally holds out his hands, silently asking for the herbs Dean’s holding. Dean had forgotten about them, but at Sam’s movement, offers them, places them on Sam’s outstretched palms. His skin grazes against Sam’s, and a jolt of pure electric want shoots through him. 

Sam looks at him, open and hiding at the same time, and Dean’s heart aches with regret at the same time his blood hums. 

“Do you need me to remind you what we need to do?” Sam asks, and though his voice is soft, it ratchets around the room, bouncing off of Dean’s skin and sinking into his bones. How the damned ritual’s supposed to keep him from wanting to fuck his brother, he has no idea. Since the first time, he’s had others, but he’s _wanted_ nothing, no one, else. 

“No,” Dean replies, once he finds his voice. One last, scorching look at the offering Sam makes, bare and kneeling, and then Dean turns, strips down until he’s wearing just as much as Sam, hissing at the feel of his jeans and boxers sliding off, against his dick, half-hard. He kicks his clothes to the corner and turns back to his brother, absently takes note of the runes sketched out in sage on the floor. Most of what he learned at Josiah’s has fallen into the back of his mind, where all the once-useful stuff resides, but he thinks maybe he sees the vague shape of _nauthiz_ , the hints of _uruz_ ’s angles. 

Sam’s eyes are closed; when he opens them, Dean moves and stands in front of his brother, looking down. Sam reaches over, picks up the knife, and hands it to Dean, nothing but trust in his eyes. “The brush first,” Sam says, and as Dean curls his fingers around the handle of the knife, Sam bends forward, baring the back of his neck. 

Dean’s throat dries, both at the sight and the offer of trust, and he takes hold of a strand of Sam’s hair and saws it off, holding the hairs tightly, not letting one fall to the ground. 

“It’s enough, I think?” Dean murmurs, voice ragged already. 

Sam leans up, takes the strand of hair from Dean’s hand, and picks two out of the bunch. Dean watches, knife still tight in his palm and handle digging into the skin, as Sam ties the two pieces of hair around the others with small, delicate knots. He studies the makeshift brush in his hands, so small, incongruent, in those large palms, then nods as he sets it to one side and looks up at Dean. “It’ll work.” 

Dean almost wishes it hadn’t, because he’s not at all sure about the next part, but Sam said the ritual needs blood to work, so when Sam holds out his right arm, Dean steadies Sam’s hand and draws the curve of the blade down the underside of Sam’s arm, hesitating only for a second. 

He follows the vein, makes it deep and long, and when he’s done, Dean licks dry lips and watches as Sam tilts his arm, lets the blood fall off into the ice bucket, staining the white plastic crimson. He almost can’t bear to watch, but it turns out the way he’s gotten used to Sam's wounds turning out: Sam heals quickly and without a mark. 

Dean’s eyes are drawn to Sam’s hands as Sam throws a handful of salt into the bucket and stirs it around with one finger, throws in just as much sage and mixes that in. Sam looks up, then, and the eager grin on his face is the slightest bit startling until Dean remembers what comes next. 

“My favourite part,” Sam murmurs, and reaches forward, tugs Dean closer. Dean closes his eyes as Sam’s tongue darts out and licks the underside of his cock, fingers skittering over his balls. It’s almost too much to expect his knees to hold him up, especially when Sam opens his mouth and takes him in, sucking just the way Dean likes, all pressure and tongue, no teeth. 

“Sam,” Dean says on an exhale, putting far more into the single syllable than just his brother’s name. His hands lift of their own accord, tangling in Sam’s hair, fingers finding the jagged edges of a hacked-off curl as Sam starts to move back and forth. His throat tightens around Dean’s dick one moment, the next has Dean groaning when Sam opens his mouth and moves back, head of Dean’s cock rubbing across the line of Sam’s cheekbones, leaving trails of pre-come and saliva glistening on the skin. 

“Sam, just do it,” Dean says, and moves his hands, uses one to open Sam’s mouth, uses the other to guide his dick back into that wet heat. He thrusts, shallow movements, and Sam hollows his cheeks, sucks and licks and slurps until every muscle in Dean’s body is wound taut and thrumming in pain. 

Dean looks at his brother, eyes caught on the picture Sam makes like this, lips swollen, shining wet, and when Sam looks back up at him, eyes filled with lust and something Dean thinks is love, he comes. 

Sam doesn’t swallow, just breathes through his nose and keeps his mouth loose until Dean finishes. When Dean stumbles backwards, feet kicking against the sage-traced runes but not, somehow, dislodging them, Sam reaches for the ice bucket and spits, using the knife to mix the blood and come together. 

The liquid inside, a sickening shade of pink, lets off a hiss of steam, and Dean can’t help leaning forward to watch. It looks disgusting, smells even worse, but Sam doesn’t look fazed, so Dean takes a deep breath and doesn’t flinch when Sam reaches in, dips his finger into it and then licks up the droplet, tasting it, sucking on his finger. 

“One more thing,” Sam says, before he looks up at Dean. 

Dean nods, says, “Tears,” and then, “From which one us?” 

He’s not sure whether to be relieved or not when Sam says, “Me. They need to be from me, and you need to make me.” Dean doesn’t know if he can go through with it, everything inside of him rebelling at the idea of making Sam cry, and Sam must see this, because he reaches up, places his fingers over the sharp jut of Dean’s hipbone, and says, softly, “We only need a few.” 

“Does it matter how?” Dean asks. Sam shakes his head, but doesn’t offer any suggestions, doesn’t do anything but shift the slightest bit. His ankles have to be killing him, Dean thinks, then wonders how he’s supposed to make Sam shed tears. Blood was far easier. Even when Connor was whipping Sam’s back to shreds, Dean doesn’t think his brother cried, out of pride or a higher pain threshold than Dean’s ever seen, he’s not sure. 

But Sam’s shed tears before when Dean was fucking his mouth and he couldn’t breathe. Sam’s cried out when Dean’s pushed his way in without lube, enough for one or two tears, maybe, and Sam’s soaked the pillow with sweat when Dean’s forbid him to come and then fucked him with fingers for half an hour; there might have been tears as well, he can’t remember. 

He doesn’t trust himself to get Sam so worked up that Sam’s crying and then leave it, get back to the ritual, but he doesn’t think he can stand to cause Sam pain. Sam heals, though, and quickly, so he wouldn’t be forced to keep looking at any kind of injury for any length of time. 

Before Dean can stop himself or take any longer to think about it, he draws his hand back and punches Sam in the face, right on his cheekbone, dangerously close to his eye. He hears the distinct crack of bone, feels skin and muscle give under his knuckles, but when he can stand to look at Sam, his brother doesn’t even look like he’s in pain. Considering the ache in his own chest, Dean finds that ridiculously unfair, even maddening, and he punches Sam again, in the same spot, over and over, until tears are shimmering their way down Sam’s cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean gasps, using the knife to collect them up and dumping the liquid into the ice bucket. “Sam, I’m sorry, I.” 

“It’s all right,” Sam says, lifting his own fingers to his face, feeling the damage. “I’ll heal. Maybe not right away,” he adds, self-deprecating smile playing on the edges of his lips, “but I’ll heal. I always do. It’s not the worst I’ve ever had.” 

Dean shakes his head, drops to his knees, and clenches his eyes closed as he rests his head against Sam’s. He hears a slight splash, then another, and opens his eyes to see his own tears falling into the ice bucket. 

“It’s okay,” Sam says, one hand curving around the back of Dean’s head, keeping him right where he is. “It’s. Everything’s okay, Dean, I promise.” 

Dean takes a few minutes to pull himself together, maybe half an hour; time’s running fluid now, backwards and forwards, as if they’re stuck in the middle of a slip-stream, isolated from everyone else and alone. When he can stand to, he leans back, missing the warmth of Sam’s skin, and pastes a smile on his lips. 

“The last part?” he asks, and something eases in his shoulders as Sam gives him a fond, indulgent look. 

“The last part,” Sam agrees. “The longest part. Are you ready? Once we start.” 

Dean nods, then lies down, sage rubbing into his back, itching and prickly. He watches as Sam stirs the contents of the ice bucket again, this time using two fingers, and then moves, crawls over to where Dean’s lying, bucket in one hand, that small brush of hair in the other. Dean’s breath grows sharp, short, and his eyelids flicker shut as he feels the first brush of liquid against his sternum. 

\--

Sam traces runes all over Dean’s body. Dean stops shivering after the first hour but he can’t get used to the feeling of the brush and the concoction of blood, tears, and come that dries on his skin and pulls, itches. He’s lost track of which runes Sam’s painting out, thinks maybe he felt _thurisaz_ over his heart, _laukaz_ on his forehead, _perthro_ between the base of Dean’s cock and his navel. 

Sam’s whispering things as well, things that Dean guesses are in old Norse, things Dean doesn’t have a chance of understanding. It sounds comforting, though, lulls him into a half-doze that doesn’t get interrupted when Sam turns Dean over gently and starts painting sigils onto the planes of his back. 

It changes, somehow, then. With every rune that gets sketched on to his back, Dean starts to feel something leaving him. It starts out slowly, just the barest idea that something that once tore his heart apart might not be so intense now, like a wound that has suddenly aged two weeks, no longer fresh, settling into memories. Sam paints the second rune on, at the nape of Dean’s neck, and Dean can _feel_ something being drawn out through his skin, captured in the ritual-begotten ink Sam’s using and laying hot on his skin. 

The feeling turns into an ache, then actual, burning pain, the further along Sam gets. As the angles of the last one dry, lingering on Dean’s left Achilles tendon, he can’t stop the ragged inhale of absolute agony. Every square inch of his skin feels as if it’s on fire, as if he’s about to go up in flames, and he wonders if this is what it means to pull all of his need for Sam out of his body and leave it on the surface, stripped to the air and visible for everyone to see, open for the taking.

“Almost done,” Sam murmurs, and turns Dean enough so that Dean can hold the brush in one hand, Sam’s giant hand covering his and holding him steady. Sam helps Dean dip the brush in the ice bucket, close to empty, and holds himself still so that Dean can dab the lines of a rune in the middle of Sam’s forehead under Sam’s guidance. 

He draws three lines on Sam’s forehead, shaky and uneven, but they all connect and they’re recognisably close enough to the rune Sam wanted. The instant that the second line connects to the third, Sam lets go of Dean’s hand and arches, as if lightning came in through the roof and struck him, is coursing through him head to toe. 

Dean’s eyes widen as Sam's skin starts to turn red, and as he panics, gaining enough energy to forget about his own pain, he realises that the burning on his skin has lessened and that shapes are appearing on Sam, all over Sam’s body. 

“Sam?” he asks, worry leaking through his voice. He can see runes coming to life all over Sam’s body, can feel them flaking off of his own, and then the sage tracing out runes on the floor starts to burn without _burning_. Sam screams, then, and the runes brand themselves into his skin. “ _Sam_!” 

Sam opens his eyes, pins them right on Dean, even as he’s screaming, and Dean freezes, because he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. Pain, yes, and a certain amount of enjoyment because of it, but hate and love as well, regret and diabolical joy, and then Sam’s eyes clear into a look that Dean’s seen before, but only on demons, on werewolves, on creatures that have nothing human inside of them. 

“Dean,” Sam whispers, purr and prayer both. “My Dean.” 

The rune-brands sink in, slowly disappear, and Dean can only imagine that something inside of Sam is drinking them in, taking them from him to Sam and sealing them in tight. Dean feels empty, but then Sam’s muscles give and he collapses to the floor, unconscious, smiling. 

\--

Dean doesn’t move for a few minutes, trying to make sense of everything that’s happened over the past few hours. He finally accepts that it’s impossible, so he picks Sam up, carefully lays him on the bed, makes sure Sam looks comfortable, and then sets about to clean up the trappings of their ritual. 

He picks up the biggest clumps of sage leaves, still hot to the touch, and flushes them down the toilet, grinds the others into the carpet and opens the window to start clearing out the smell of smoke and burning blood. The ice bucket looks pristine, as if it didn’t have a mix of blood and come in it half the night, but Dean fills it with water and shoves it under one of the beds, hoping he never has to look at it again. 

The brush, made of Sam’s hair, has disappeared somewhere; Dean gets suspicious and steps to the edge of the bed, tilts Sam’s head and peers underneath, sees that his hair looks untouched. The knife, though, that still has traces of blood and saline on it, so Dean rinses it off then polishes it, eyes getting heavier. By the time the knife is clean, Dean gives up and crawls into bed next to Sam. 

Sam is breathing, slow and steady, and he’s warm, like normal, under Dean’s fingertips. Still, Dean can’t keep from tracing his fingers all over Sam’s body; he won’t believe Sam’s fine until he can feel for himself, until Sam opens his eyes and talks to him. Dean sets his head on Sam’s chest, listening to the beating rhythm of Sam’s heart, and falls asleep, Sam’s breath whispering over his head.

\--

Something doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel like it should. Dean wakes up instantly, then throws his head back and groans, eyes still closed. Sam’s riding his dick, the weight of Sam’s body positioned carefully, and he’s moving slow, achingly, painfully slow. 

Dean opens his eyes, and Sam grins down at him, scrutinising glint in his eyes. “Morning, Dean,” Sam purrs. Dean feels a chill run down his spine. He doesn’t feel anything that reminds him of the bond, doesn’t feel any of the urgency or the absolute heart-deep _need_ he’s so used to when it comes to his brother, _fucking_ his brother. 

They fuck hard and fast, the dirtiest things spilling out of Sam’s mouth, and though Dean doesn’t feel the bond tugging on him, he still reacts, can’t do anything _but_ react. His nails dig into Sam’s hips, holding Sam to a rough pace, thrusting up as Sam slides down, the slap of skin against skin unforgiving, echoing in the room. The bitter-sweet tang of blood spills into the air and Dean’s fingers slip down Sam’s hipbones, toward his cock. 

“Wanna fuck your fist,” Sam groans, head thrown back and sweat running down his body. “C’mon, Dean, please, jack me, jack me, gotta come, _fuck_.” 

Dean laughs, can’t help it, and the next time Sam lifts up, Dean pushes his brother off, to the floor. Sam lands with a whoof of displaced air and, Dean thinks, surprise, but Dean follows a moment later, pushes Sam to his stomach and tilts his knees, until Sam’s kneeling, face buried into the carpet, ass high. 

“You wanna fuck my fist, you’re gonna fuck my fist,” Dean murmurs, leaning to nip at Sam’s ass, leaving teeth marks in the skin, the taste of Sam sour, like always, smoky now as well, burning alcohol and limes. He runs his tongue around Sam’s hole, dips in once, twice, tastes himself on Sam’s skin, swallows down the mixture of them together. Sam shivers under him and Dean says, “Don’t move,” as he crawls over to find lube. 

Sam doesn’t move, and Dean drags his teeth across the back of Sam’s thigh when he settles into the space between Sam’s legs. Sam doesn’t move, not even when Dean’s tongue-fucking him, not even when Dean slides one finger into his brother’s ass, feeling hot muscles clamp down around him, aided by saliva and pre-come from earlier. Sam doesn’t move, but he talks, streams of filth and pleading, always begging for more, for deeper, for harder.

“Desperate for it, aren’t you,” Dean asks, as conversational a tone as he can make it. “You’re such a.” Dean stops, ashen, as he realises what he was about to say, what he was about to call his brother. 

Sam laughs, looks over his shoulder at Dean, and says, “Fuck me, Dean. After all, I damned myself for this. Can’t let it go to waste, now, can I?” Every urge to continue has fled from Dean, every urge except one, dick hard, leaking. Sam’s expression evens out, and he says, “I want you to fuck me, Dean. I’ve been a whore for a long time. You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.” 

“You’re not,” Dean starts to say, but his words are stolen when Sam clenches his muscles around the finger inside of him. Dean’s head drops forward as he groans. 

“Not anymore,” Sam says, in agreement or something else, and pushes back, draws Dean’s finger even deeper inside. “Now stop getting emotional about it and fuck me already.” 

Dean snorts, can’t look at Sam as he mutters, “Pushy, little brother, very pushy,” and slides two fingers in. The sigh of bone-deep pleasure that slips out of Sam’s mouth relieves Dean of a tiny amount of guilt, not nearly enough. 

Three fingers go in with a little hesitation, and four requires some patience, working their way in all-too-slowly and then giving Sam time to adjust, fucking in carefully with shallow thrusts. Dean’s impulsive urge to ask if anyone else has done this gets stamped down at the sheer idea of what they’re going to do. He’s never done this with Sam before; hard to believe, after all the fucking they’ve done, but he’s going to have his _hand_ inside of _Sam_. The thought doesn’t seem real. 

Sam takes four fingers and ends up begging for more. Dean doesn’t give him more, just pulls his fingers out and covers them with more lube, keeps stretching his brother, keeps him slick, until lube’s shining spit-slick all over Sam’s ass. He makes sure to stroke Sam’s prostate with every thrust, and if he wondered, last night, whether Sam could cry because of pleasure, he’s found his answer. 

“Please, Dean, _Christ_ , come on, I can take it, I promise,” Sam’s saying, _pleading_ , every word going straight from Dean’s ears to his dick, unbearably hard now. “I can, I swear I can, come on, do it, do it.” 

“Gonna take me in, aren’t you,” Dean says in answer, using one trembling hand to cover the other, fingers, thumb, palm, the back of his hand, with lube. Some drips on his thigh; it’s cold, makes his jump, makes his cock twitch. “Gonna take me in and come around my hand, Sam, _fuck_. You’ll love the way this feels, Sam, promise you will.” 

Dean takes it slow. First the four fingers, bunched up together to make as small a penetration as possible; after the stretching they’ve done, it makes Sam squirm and swear, but that’s about it. Except, this time, Dean keeps going, and his knuckles slip past the ring of muscle, thumb following with a sound that makes Sam pant and claw at the carpet, that makes Dean swallow. 

“Almost there,” Dean whispers, unable to believe what he’s seeing with his own two eyes. Another nudge, and then his entire hand is inside of Sam, and Sam’s letting out these harsh little half-sob, half-whimpers that have Dean two seconds away from coming. “Feels good, doesn’t it, Sam? Didn’t I tell you?” 

Sam’s entire body is shaking and he doesn’t say anything, just moans long and hard, squeaking when Dean moves his fingers, lets them spread just the tiniest bit. “Oh, fucking fuck, fuck, fuck,” Sam bites out, pushing back on Dean, trying, however much Dean can’t fathom _how_ , to get more of Dean’s hand, wrist, inside. 

“Don’t push it,” Dean whispers, then starts to play, fingers spreading then tightening, hand moving the slightest bit, enough to drive Sam crazy. 

It does. 

Sam’s beyond speech at this point, can’t even work up enough air to make noises, instead trembling, communicating in the clicks and hisses of his breathing pattern, sweat dripping off of his arms, face. 

“You wanna come, Sammy?” Dean asks, using his other hand to wipe a line across the sweat pooling in the small of his brother’s back. He thinks he sees something, the faint outline of a rune, but decides he must be seeing things. “You wanna come all over the floor, my hand inside you, splitting you in two? You have to say yes, Sam, won’t let you until you say yes.” 

“Yes,” Sam gasps out, shaking his head, curls flying everywhere save the ones plastered to his skin, shining wet. “Yes, please, Dean, please, I want to, yes, God, yes.” 

Dean leans forward, rubs his dick against Sam’s leg, and says, “Then come, Sam.” 

The pressure around his hand is enormous, feels like it’s going to break fingers, and the smell of Sam’s come floods his nose as Sam thrums apart underneath him. 

“Dean,” Sam’s saying, half-sobbing, as he comes. “Dean, Dean, God.” 

Dean comes and doesn’t even realise, too intent on his brother. 

\--

They sleep the rest of the day. Sam’s curled into Dean, loose-limbed; he has to be aching something fierce but he never says anything. Sam wakes up and goes into the bathroom at one point, and Dean only makes it halfway to consciousness when Sam leaves and comes back a minute later with a glass of water. 

“Drink,” Sam says, soft and quiet, and Dean opens his mouth, lets Sam pour something wet and cold down his throat. It could be water, but Dean’s too tired, fucked-out and sated, to notice. 

The second time Dean wakes, he’s alone. He panics at first, because some of Sam’s clothes are gone, but then he sees the note stuck to the door: _Dean, out to get food. I’ll be right back. Think about taking a shower. You’ll feel better._

Dean does as suggested and puts on a pair of jeans. He opens the door, looks outside a few times, filled with nervous energy, and doesn’t calm down until Sam’s walking through the door, holding a couple paper bags filled with food that smells like heaven. Dean starts to smile, but then he sees the look lurking in the back of Sam’s eyes, can smell the perfume underneath the diner food, and sees the remnants of a bite mark on Sam’s neck. 

His heart plummets and his stomach churns. 

Sam’s not in the mood for sex after dinner. Instead, they cuddle up together in the same bed and Sam falls asleep near-instantly while Dean stares at the ceiling all night, fingers running through his brother’s hair.


End file.
